Outside the afternoon sun was brighter than he expected and he raised a hand to shade his eyes. It was close to three, coming up on the treacherous five-hour stretch between happy hour and lights out. This was the period in which his desire for a drink chafed and his resolve wore thin. He could live without mimosas and Bloody Marys, though he remembered with fondness the many mornings when he was on vacation or invited to a brunch or out on someone’s boat. On those occasions drinking before noon was not only acceptable, but gleefully encouraged. He didn’t mind doing without beer or wine with lunch. Those were pleasures he’d sacrifice in a heartbeat if he could just have a cocktail or two in the late afternoon. Every day he played the same little game. Technically . . . in truth . . . and if you wanted to get right down to it . . . he was free to drink if he wanted. He hadn’t signed an oath. He wasn’t under doctor’s orders, forbidden to imbibe because of some dire medical condition. He hadn’t been admonished by the court, though he knew if he were picked up for any reason while inebriated, things would go badly. Still, he had a choice. He could choose. He could drink if he wanted to, especially if no one found out. For nine days in a row, he’d behaved himself, and he felt good about that. Now the next cocktail hour glimmered on the horizon, and with it came the debate. Should he or shouldn’t he? Would he or wouldn’t he?

He scanned the parking lot for Brent, who preferred picking him up there instead of out on the street. He’d taken to running errands while Walker was tied up, timing his return so he could swing through just as Walker came out. The girl had paused, apparently waiting for a lift. A turquoise MG pulled to a stop and she got in on the passenger side, where an enormous golden retriever had taken up residence. He watched her wrestle with the dog, which had a prior claim on the seat. The dog rearranged itself, settling in the girl’s lap with an attitude of entitlement.

Walker watched idly, smiling to himself. The car didn’t move and he realized the driver, a kid, was staring at him through the windshield. He caught only a quick glimpse, but in that instant, he knew who it was: Michael Sutton, whose face was indelibly imprinted on his mind’s eye. Incredible that all these years later, something as ephemeral as the slant of his cheek, the shape of his chin, could spark such a recollection. He’d last seen Michael when he was six and then only briefly. Walker had expected to run into him long before now, but it still came as a jolt.